


It's only when I hit the ground

by ameliaspunkcomplex



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen!Castiel, Stolen the Sam's insanity plot but hey, human!Cas, i suck, whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:38:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliaspunkcomplex/pseuds/ameliaspunkcomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little ficlet about Castiel's falling from grace and mental stability.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's only when I hit the ground

Castiel was sitting on the damp bed of Bobby Singer’s panic room, not feeling certifiably safe in the slightest albeit the ancient symbols etched into the metal that promised to repel any and all, because he had a feeling that was he was trying to outrun couldn’t be escaped.  
But Castiel hadn’t felt certifiably safe in a very long time.  
  
 And his shoulders tensed, a twitch running up the left in parallel to the shiver that embodied his spine as Castiel forced himself to look over his shoulder, neck creaky and begrudging, heart stammering against his ribcage in melody at the rolling of thunder, the momentary flutter of wings, the explosion of a ceiling light; the very omens that screamed at him ‘run!’ just moments before Uriel leant against the iron wall, wearing an uncharacteristically malevolent grin, brandishing a knife, walking over to where Castiel now stood but stayed, frozen by fear and trepidation.  
  
 “Castiel,” was the acidic whisper, silver glinting as the knife turned into the sunlight, his feet still refusing to move as the larger angel grabbed him by the throat and tossed him, limp and light, harshly against the side of the room, there with still a large hand wrapped around his jugular before Castiel could scream at his unconscious limbs _to do something! Run! Fight back!_  
  
 “You never deserved it,” the other murmured, and now he was Balthazar, face a contorted mask of pure hatred and spite, unlike anything Castiel had ever seen.  
“Balthazar?” He managed, tone confused and cracking down the middle with each ragged breath.  
“Any of it. The grace. The favouritism,” he hissed, pressing the metal into a suddenly very present, very physical wing, blade biting into flesh and soul and a whimper escaped Castiel’s lips as it burned like a limb would and not in the sense of something metaphysical, an extension of his mind and grace; no, as the knife pushed deeper he could feel the fiery agony through his body and bones and blood. The pain was very real.

“We all knew he loved you so much. Our Father,” the angel _thing_ spat, it’s face now Anna’s, the same defective veneer of rage. “He raised you, again and again while we died and suffered for your cause. You didn’t deserve a thing.”  
Castiel screamed as he felt something thick and wet gush down his back, perhaps not blood but something closer -  
 _if souls could bleed_  
\- and drew his own blade from his sleeve, dropping it into his hand and raising it, wide-eyed, only to have his hand caught by Lucifer.  
  
 “I rebelled and I was tattered and thrown out and locked away. You’re the walking re-definition of unworthy, angel.” His skin bubbled and wept, his vessel falling apart at it’s stretching seams.  
  
 But it was Raphael who made the final hack into the angel’s wings as he screamed and cursed in ancient languages, a long, unpunctuated string of incomprehensible pain and desperation.  
“Not so powerful now, brother,” as strings of gold were ripped painfully from every orifice, never a sensation more excruciating.

Castiel managed to rip his wrist free, slashing madly at the other who just chuckled cruelly. “You don’t have anything left to hurt me with, Castiel,” was the responsive sneer.  
“Castiel,” he taunted. “Cas. Cas.  
“Cas!”  
Dean pinned his wrists against the iron wall and the knife clattered to the floor; his brow was furrowed but his eyes were wide and dancing with concern, pupils crossed with flickering shadows and emerald-toned blinding lights that bore into Castiel as he was slowly dragged from his own mind and back to reality, panting and shaking and frowning in confusion.  
“Cas?”  
“The angels-”  
“They can’t get in here Cas. You know that,” Dean replied steadily, tentatively.  
Castiel opened his mouth to speak, closed it again and let himself go limp inside Dean’s steel grip, signalling that he wasn’t dangerous, he wasn’t a lunatic, and with all due respect, could he _please be let down_.  
“Can I let you go now?” Dean asked slowly. “Not going to try and stab me?”

Not a twisted combination of every one of Heaven’s warriors, fallen and graceful alike. No legions of old friends and foes with a terrifyingly heightened sense of disgust and hatred for Castiel. And although the screeching burn was still so bright and vivid in his mind that for a moment, he swore he could have seen gaping wounds if he’d looked; no, his shoulders were intact, just about.  
But there were still no wings.  
No grace.  
And Castiel was still human. He was still a walking, talking, somewhat functioning example of vulnerability and pale flesh that bruised to the touch. He was still weak. And fragile.  
“I… I’m sorry,” He stammered, avoiding Dean’s fiery gaze, looking pointedly at the ground and trying to control breaths for once he’d had no need. “I was just…”  
“Having a goddamn mental breakdown?” The glance that he caught harboured something deeper than concern and fear that burned Castiel deeper than the still half-remnant blaze in the hollows of his less than incorporeal wings. “Who the hell did you think I was?”

Castiel glanced at the knife on the ground a few metres from him. A scream that sounded too distant to be his; but one only Castiel could hear, rung loud and long and echoed as he tried not to flinch like a schizophrenic – although he supposed even that was possible in his painstakingly fleshy, susceptible condition.

“It’s been hard,” he offered weakly, a slither of a fraction of the truth. It had been terrifying, gruelling, grating, a surrealist nightmare that preyed on him in direct sunlight with everything he’d ever feared. Castiel wasn’t one for nightmares; he’d preferred not needing to sleep.  
“We need to talk,” Dean said in that solemn, gravelly tone of his, eyes boring into Castiel’s.  
Castiel paused. He didn't have a suitable explanation that didn't warrant undeserved sympathy. He didn't need to throw this on Dean. He did that often enough. “No. We don’t.”  
A look of utter disgust and disbelief, and Dean’s tone was incredulous when he shouted, “That’s not an option, Cas! Look at you, for god’s sake! Babbling about angels in the panic room and slashing the goddamn air!”  
Castiel fixed him with a somewhat even gaze, trying to feign normality. “Not right now. I can handle this,” he said in a voice he hoped was somewhat assertive and hinted at angelic command.  
“Now that is utter bull-”  
“Dean.”  
“No!” Dean yelled. “I’ve seen this happen to Sammy. He said the same damn thing, Cas! You can’t handle-”  
"Please."  
It was more of a command than a plea, and Dean fell silent, stared at him searchingly for a moment.  
"What did you see, Cas?"  
  
 _Unworthy._  
  
Castiel turned and strode from the panic room, quickening his pace to flee from the house in total, to somewhere safer, even though the nagging voice in the back of his mind told him there _wasn't such a place.  
_  
Pouring rain. It drenched his coat and seeped through Castiel's bones, but he refused to shiver.  
  
The booming thunder and a flickering streetlight forced a shiver from him that wasn't cold, reminded him that he wasn't alone; perhaps not in mind. His demons danced around him, taunting, but Castiel was content having drawn them away from the house, away from hurting Dean or Sam or forcing him to. It was a small victory in a hopelessly lost war.  
  
His demons danced around him. There were some that he had to keep to himself. 


End file.
